


Funerary Practices

by EssayOfThoughts



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cannibalism, Gen, POV Third Person Limited, Wakes & Funerals, Werewolf Culture, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 16:57:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15778254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EssayOfThoughts/pseuds/EssayOfThoughts
Summary: In prehistory people prayed to beasts. They saw the claws of the lion, the strength of the bear. They saw the teeth of the wolf.They prayed to them, and begged strength of them. They ate of them, in the hope of gaining their might, and wore their skins to be closer to their spirits.Werewolves, wild werewolves, will do all of these things, except they do not need to wear any skin but their own.





	Funerary Practices

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/409116) by The Sinister Man. 



> Written thanks to discussions on the Discord Server for the truly excellent fanfiction [Prince of Slytherin](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11191235/1/Harry-Potter-and-the-Prince-of-Slytherin%22) by The Sinister Man, specifically regarding how that AU handles werewolves and infection vectors. This was previously posted on the server; this is the cleaned up and properly edited version.
> 
> For reference, yes the werewolf leading it all is Fenrir.

Deep in the forest is a clearing. There’s a small house there, an old shepherding hut, and before it the ashes of a fire. The grass is trodden down, trodden flat.

There’s no trace of what passed the night before.

 

* * *

 

Lynora shakes with fear. She can’t help it. It's a bright sunny day, a beautiful day, and Lynora Pentergrackle shakes with fear and dread in the shadow of a great oak. She swallows a sob but the noise hiccups out of her anyway.

“Shhh,” says the woman behind her. A hand strokes through her hair. “Shh. Soon you’ll understand.”

 

* * *

 

The fire circle is wide, almost two metres. Ash pale and thick in the centre, charred earth and grass towards the stone-marked edge. Bones litter the edges of it, some shattered and some intact. Most bear the marks of fire or teeth.

Something, the night before, feasted here.

 

* * *

 

Lynora squeezes her eyes shut and tries not to cry. She’s twelve years old. She’s the grown up of her sisters, the oldest. She’s strong, strong enough to  _ not cry. _

The woman crouches in front of her.

“Now,” the lady says. Then she tuts, and grasps Lynora’s chin. “Look at me when I speak to you. Now. You are going to stay here, and stay silent. Do you understand?”

A scar marrs the woman’s neck. Thick and ropey, twisted as though it healed wrong. Her eyes are green-gold as the sunlight through the first beech leaves. In the shadowed half-light of the tree, her eyes glitter  _ wrong. _

Lynora swallows another sob, and nods. 

The woman smiles and rises from her crouch. Her hand pats Lynora’s head as though she’s a dog. “Good girl.”

The woman strides off, across the grass, and Lynora tries to stop shaking.

 

* * *

 

It's hard to track footprints in the clearing. Soft springy grass does not tend to hold a trodden shape for long, and especially not when overlaid and overlaid by more. The number of human feet cannot be counted, nor the number of pawprints. Just footprint after footprint after pawprint, chasing away into the forest until they can no longer be traced.

Here and there are pieces of torn clothing.

 

* * *

 

Lynora stays, hidden in shadow. She can, just beyond the trees, see where the woman went. She paces a circle, looks in at the building Lynora can just make out between tree trunks, then flicks a wand at some stones. 

A circle forms, a fire flares. 

Slowly, one by one, people gather.

 

* * *

 

In the forest under trees, scraps of rope lay in pieces. Torn, frayed and cut, they lay here and there, with no rhyme or reason. Some scraps are closer to the fire - one is even singed by it, charred black. 

All show sign of stress and strain. Some are even still knotted together.

 

* * *

 

The rope is uncomfortable on her wrists, on her ankles. The noise from the clearing is a strong susurrus, regular and steady, hiding the noise of the rustling trees, and scaring away birdsong. If only she could get free, she could run. Instead, she is tied, hand and foot, and cannot move more than a shuffle.

The gathering has grown, people loping through forest and integrating with the group with the kind of ease that shows long acquaintance. They move around the fire, clasping hands, brushing shoulders, sharing laughter. 

Lynora doesn’t dare think on why she might have been brought here. She’s heard the stories, sneaking down late at night to eavesdrop on her parents fears. She knows that there’s been stories of strangers in the woods, of wolves howling at the full moon.

She knows that the Apothecary’s boy went missing two months ago, and that last month half the wizards and witches of the village went on a journey into the forest.

She knows as well, that some of them didn’t return.

 

* * *

 

The village, further down the valley is quiet. In some houses, in some kitchens, parents sit in mute shock, hands cupping mugs long since gone cold.

The owls fly, a single letter in each one’s talons.

_ Dear resident, _

_ We regret to inform you that there have been signs of a werewolf attack… _

 

* * *

 

“A farewell!” says the man, lifting a mug. Something sloshes out, smelling of hops. “A farewell to our dearly departed brother. A welcome to the new blood to replace them.”

Even in the forest Lynora hears him. A few moments later the woman stops in front of her.

“Be glad,” she says. “Few get to see this. With luck, you may even survive.”

The woman pulls her up. A slashing movement of her wand, and the rope around Lynora’s ankles is cut. The one around her wrists remains.

“Tsts. Don’t try to run.” The woman’s hand is firm on Lynora’s arm. “If you run, then you won’t get to see, now will you?”

Through the trees Lynora spies others, leading children as well. Some are stumbling, legs still tied. Others are struggling. One breaks free, bolts, only to be hit in the back by a curse.

“Leave him!” the woman calls and the man who sent the spell stops still. “Janos. Leave him. A coward runs. We are not cowards.”

The man shrugs, and the walk continues. The crowd slowly parts to let them through.

 

* * *

 

Lycanthropic infection is known to happen by one way and one way above all: bite. The saliva of the infected creature then enters the bloodstream, and the victim, unable to fight the disease off, instead incorporates it and its magic into their body, in the form of an infective, transformative curse. There are stories, old stories, that if one drinks water from the footprint of a wolf, one can also become a werewolf. Generally, healers and magical theorists dismiss this idea, others point out that water tainted with werewolf drool would not be that distinguishable from ordinary.

There is one other method of infection, the one that no one likes to talk about.

 

* * *

 

“Together,” the man says, and his mug is set down. “We are strongest together. Sandor was killed alone. Going into town to get supplies. Ambushed by fearful humans, and slaughtered.”

The crowd is silent.

“Slaughtered,” the man says, “Like an animal.”

Slowly, a solemn face turns to a smile, all too filled with teeth.

“What are we, but animals?” he says. “The strongest, fastest, the best of beasts. The beast itself.”

He pushes himself off from the table, strides forward. 

“Sandor died, killed by fools. Fools we’ll take our vengeance on. But first, before vengeance, before the moon, we must replenish our ranks, and share Sandor’s strength, not just amongst ourselves, but with our new kin.”

 

* * *

 

Werewolves, wild werewolves, those who have given themselves over to the beast in their bones, may often tend towards the wild anger of their beastly form even when the moon is not bright and whole in the sky. Wrath and rape, torture and tracking, killing and cannibalism. All are practised with ready ease by those so far gone into their sickness and their curse that they consider it a blessing. 

Amongst such wolves, they like to tell stories and to retell them. Of how the Berserkers of Scandinavia were not humans, pitiful and weak, but werewolves, strong and mighty. That they ate of wolves and became wolves themselves, and that they took the mightiness of the beast into their bones. They say they enact the oldest and most holy of rites, the devouring of the dead, to return their strength to the living. 

They say a great deal of things, these wild wolves, and then they do them.

 

* * *

 

Lynora is pushed forwards. Besides her, the other children are as well. Hands still tied, the hands of their captors tight on their shoulders, so tight their nails feel like claws.

The man takes two steps to one side and the crowd sways back from him, like a wave from the shore. A table is made clear. A shape upon it. A sheet over it.

With one movement he flicks his wrist, and the sheet comes off.

 

* * *

 

In prehistory people prayed to beasts. They saw the claws of the lion, the strength of the bear. They saw the teeth of the wolf.

They prayed to them, and begged strength of them. They ate of them, in the hope of gaining their might, and wore their skins to be closer to their spirits.

Werewolves, wild werewolves, will do all of these things, except they do not need to wear any skin but their own.

 

* * *

 

The body looks almost fresh. A great gash - a cutting curse, perhaps, or a sword? - soaks the clothes the body wears with blood, still fresh enough to be livid, thick enough to be almost black at the core. 

The man drops the sheet and digs a clawed hand into the body.

When it emerges, it holds something red and raw.

“Now,” he says. “Who’s first?”

 

* * *

 

They say, in old records, from places where they had no option but, that human flesh tastes like pork.

 

* * *

 

The first bite almost chokes her. Its shoved into her face, her nose pinched like she’s a misbehaving toddler, refusing her potion. The blood is thick, congealing on her lips and by her gums, and the flesh is tough, hard to chew. The hand on her shoulder is firm, fingernails digging in. 

She chews and chews and swallows.

The next bite goes down easier.

 

* * *

 

Infection is not always immediately apparent. Many diseases have incubation periods, from hours to days to even months. 

Lycanthropy, nightmare of nightmares, only reveals itself as the moon lights the sky.

 

* * *

 

One of the children is sick. A pool of vomit almost hits their shoes, bloody and littered with peas and pieces of raw flesh. Others are sobbing, crying. Lynora is silent and shaking, unable to let herself think. If she thinks, she will break, and so she focuses simply, moment to moment. The meat was in front of her. Now it is gone. She feels it sitting in her stomach like lead.

The children fed, the crowd swarms forwards. Hands reach, nails sharp and tearing. Handfuls are torn from the body, lifted to gleeful mouths. One hand reaches out, smashes a bone. The shattered thing is lifted, and the marrow drunk down like wine. 

Lynora stands, and shakes, and does not dare to move.

The sky above has darkened, and the wind around them is strong and steady.

 

* * *

 

Many infected express shock, surprise. Even knowing what they know, no one truly wishes to believe that they will become a ravening beast. Even knowing what they know, no one dares to dream what they might do when no longer themselves. 

They say that it is those who do not choose suicide that one should be wary of.

 

* * *

 

“A farewell given,” the man says. “And a welcome.”

The fire behind them crackles. The wind is steady, rustling the leaves. The man’s head lifts, looks over the heads of the crowd. As one, the crowd turns, hands pushing the children to face the distance.

Above the treetops the moon is rising.

 

* * *

 

The moon is many things. It is a face, an old man. It is a rabbit. It is a satellite. It is a dream and a hope and a nightmare all in one. 

For werewolves, it is their undoing.

 

* * *

 

The moon is bright. The moon is so large it fills the sky, fills her eyes, fills her  _ world. _ There is nothing but the moon and the lead in her stomach, and the surge of  _ something _ tearing out of her bones.

Lynora screams as the first one breaks.

 

* * *

 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments!


End file.
